


Dancing Alone

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Albino Karkat Vantas, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Humanstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat Vantas is a somewhat average college student living in a dorm room with his friend, John Egbert. He enjoys nothing more than being left alone most of the time. Unless, of course, he's bothering to be social or is helping someone with something.</p><p>At the same time, Dave Strider is living a separate life as a college dropout. He makes most of his money as a local performer and breakdancer. However, he also has a few very odd odd-jobs. He has never met Karkat, nor does he know he exists.</p><p>However, after John befriends Dave, this impersonal disconnect between the two begins to rapidly disintegrate...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If someone were to ask me to state what I know to be fucking indisputably true, they’d probably walk away with a justifiably small list of such absolute truths. The first one would be that I know they must be some sort of insane asshole—probably a psychologist or some sort of egomaniacal asshat of the same nature—to be asking me that question. The second thing would be that my name is Karkat Vantas, a ridiculous title which was probably inflicted upon me as foresightful punishment for that fact that I am and have always been a colossal shitstain of a person. Thirdly, I would make a point of mentioning that I and everyone surrounding me exists. Finally, I’d tell the hypothetical, wannabe-shrink that I—the fucking impossibly hopeless romantic, who tends to have some sort of freakish knack for matching people—will die without ever matching himself.

Of course, a lot of my friends—and by “a lot,” I mean “a large proportion of the tiny number of companions I have who haven’t turned into assholes or ceased all forms of communication with me”—argue that this last fact isn’t true.

“Oh, but, Karkat!” they often coo in their most annoying, finger-wagging voice, “You’re a great guy! You’ll find someone one day!”

“Yes, of course,” is often my response. Often—no… Not often. _Always_. Always, this reply is accompanied by a drawn-out sigh of dismissive vexation and a swift topic shift. Most of the time, the topic changes to the first thought my tiny, piece-of-shit mind can come up with—stupid assfuckery like what the latest essay topic is or how my conversational partner’s room is faring with the misfortune of their discommodious presence.

Sometimes, if I’m feeling especially confident—an occasion which occurs once every piss-yellow moon—I may actually throw around the idea for a moment or two. I might consider that there’s some asshat who’s just as much of a societal flea as I am and that this aforementioned douchebag’s near-constant presence would be (at the very best) tolerable to me.

Today, however, is not such a day. This isn’t very surprising, since confident days are so rare as to be deemed occurrences which, as has already been mentioned, happen once every _piss-yellow moon_.

In fact, today is one of what I call an “everyone can shut the fucking hell up while I loudly and perhaps pointlessly berate and decry my own existence” day. As such a moniker implies, this is due to the fact that I feel particularly shitty.

My unpleasant sentiment for this day might be caused by a good number of things.

Earlier this morning, my roommate, John, declared that I have no option but to follow him as he drags me off to some sort of imbecilic community event, where I will be forced to watch countless talentless anus-dwelling fuckers pretend to have talent. Also, upon waking this morning, I found that the essay I had been working on for weeks had self-destructed and disappeared from my shitty laptop. And now, as I stare at the blur which happens to be my reflection, I find a million other things to loathe about myself.

I find things such as a bandage fuck-knows-how-many-skin-tones too tan for my paper-white skin covering a superficial cut on my chin. (As a bit of pointless background pertaining to my equally meaningless life, I acquired the wound two days ago. I misjudged the position and placement of the razor I was shaving with.)

I fumble about until I find my hairbrush. Then, as I lean so close that my nose is a mere twitch away from touching the mirror, I force myself to look at my reflection. I attempt to tame my wild mess of white hair. I fail, I sigh, and I catch a glimpse of the ridiculously thick, nearly-black tinted glasses resting on the bridge of my congenitally crooked nose. I don’t bother raising the glasses to get a “clearer” view of my murky red eyes. Instead, I close my eyes and pull myself away from the stupid reflection. I refrain from my nasty habit of smashing mirrors only by reminding myself that it’s not mine and that I’d already broken one pricey mirror this year.

“Karkat!” a familiar voice calls from behind the door leading into the dormitory.

I sigh and drop my hairbrush, listening as it clangs against the porcelain sink. Then, haphazardly, I respond, “What do you want, you twit?”

John, as per usual, either ignores or fails to mention my commentary. He opts, instead, to continue his conversation. “We’ve got to get moving. We’ll be late if we don’t hurry the hell along… like… now…”

“Okay! Hold your fucking horseshit,” I mumble as I wiggle the doorknob about so that it tricks itself into working like it’s actually supposed to. I open the door and step out of the coolness of the bathroom and into the warmer air of the dorm.

As soon as my foot touches the ragged but still fairly soft carpet, I’m off. John has a firm grip on my wrist and he’s doggedly dragging my ass off to the talentless talent show.

 

* * *

 

Not surprisingly, the talent show is a load of bullshit. Of the first fifteen performances, the most interesting didn’t even get a chance to demonstrate how far they could shove a dildo up their ass before being kicked off the stage. Aside from that, it’s utter, balls-numbing boredom.

Unfortunately for me, I can’t go to sleep or ignore the damned thing. John, knowing that my vision is as close to 20/20 as the toilet in our bathroom is to the fucking sun, just had to be a good samaritan. He got us front row seats. I might not like the acts, but I’m too decent to upright fall asleep in the middle of a performance. My only solace is that Dave Strider—the ass we’ve come to see—is up soon.

I barely have time to wonder how soon “soon” really is before the announcer, a bored-looking, balding man from the local radio station which stupidly funded the affair, speaks up. I tune him out, though I manage to glean from his short introduction the name I’ve been waiting to hear. “Dave Strider.”

The crowd claps unenthusiastically. i snicker. No one seems to want to be here.

The curtain rises and I squint at the central figure—a blonde guy in jeans and an unimpressive red-and-white baseball shirt. There’s nothing special about him. Hell, he’s the least extraordinary person to take the stage yet. It doesn’t help that he seems to not take any particular pride in himself, seeing as he’s hunched over like he’s got the weight of half the world on his shoulders.

There’s nothing special about what’s set up around him, either. Whereas some people have had all sorts of insane shit—like giant rubber tires and flaming juggling supplies—he has only a music player.

What the fuck was he trying to pull? Surely, it wasn’t what it seemed like.

He wanders over to the CD player he’s brought along and carelessly punches the button to begin the song. Silently, he moves to take his place..

The music begins mere moments after he’s settled into his place. It’s soft but fast. With every passing second, though, it’s as if it grows louder. It does this slowly—nearly imperceptibly. One minute, it’s the volume of someone talking loudly, and the next minute, it’s the volume of someone trying to put a goddamned iPhone through their blender. It’s the kind of music I’d expect to hear in the background of the unholy fuckspawn of _Need for Speed_ and some sort of dirtied-up pop music album.

Now, I don’t really see much more than a constantly moving slur as far as the dance is concerned. When I do see things, they’re quick snippets. The blurred image of a limb moving into the next position or the brief glimpse of a face. Long story short, he was pretty fucking intense. I guess I’d say it’s breakdancing, though I’m not an expert on dance styles.

The entire performance lasts no more than two minutes. It’s over before I can really think about what I witnessed. The judges sitting in front of us seem to feel the same way, as they’re grumbling under their breath to one another. The score only further confirms the assumption. Out of thirty points possible, twelve points are given. That’s not the lowest score, by any means. The guy who tried to shove a dildo up his butt as a display of particular talent got zero out of thirty. The idiot claiming that cleaning the exterior of a car on-stage in ten minutes was a talent was generously awarded a mere seven points. Hell, Dave’s twelve point score is the highest today. Still, from the resultant huff onstage, it seems that Dave isn’t too pleased.

I suppose that’s understandable. I mean… I don’t feel very accomplished if I win a game because everyone else sucks at it. So, in a sense, I understand his frustration. Still, I’m not sure that warranted the clearly audible and huff of frustration, but I guess that’s his choice.

By now, the crowd seems to have finally woken up. One man in the back seems to be yelling at the judges. Soon enough, a few more people join in. Within minutes, it’s full-blown chaos.

I take my chance. Using the mayhem of the poorly organised talent show, I glide discretely through and out of the crowd. Then, I make the short journey back to the dorm by foot, alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Dave Strider.

Ever since I saw the jerk at that worthless talent show two days ago, I’ve started hearing his name being mentioned around campus. It’s always been there—that’s a fact I’m not doubting any time soon. But, perhaps because I have some semblance of a face to attach to the name, I seem to be catching more and more small talk about him.

Most of it isn’t very complimentary. “Rude,” “conceited,” and “stupid” are some of the most common terms being associated with him. “Douchebag,” “freak,” and “attention-seeking asshole” are a few others.

From what I’ve gleaned from side conversations, he’s one of those little shits who makes a living off of performing odd tasks to pay for his hobbies. Apparently, these hobbies are about as enigmatic as the stupid shades he wears.

Still, I find myself pondering who he is more and more. Sure, I probably should have started doing that a while ago, but I couldn’t make myself flip even the tiniest percentage of a shit about his existence. Doesn’t matter now. It seems to me that, even if I had mused about who the hell so many supposed socially elite students were talking about before now, I would have inevitably ended at the same unattractive conclusion. After all, he seems to be regarded as a boorish waste of space, and I, being also from the boorish waste of space family, know that such types never change.Still, even the most disgustingly hedonistic of worldly burdens need someone to talk to. I mean, I’d love someone other than John to ramble to, that’s for sure.

I sigh and stare at my breakfast—a now-soggy mess of what was formerly a perfectly nice bowl of cereal. Staring at this mush, I rapidly decide that I’m not that fucking hungry. I pick up the bowl and deposit it on the conveyor belt which presumably returns it to the kitchen. Then, I wander outside. I ponder the day of the week.

Wednesday. Nothing happens Wednesday. I have no classes. I have no job. I don’t really have a place to go back to and hang out aside from the dorm… Perhaps, though, it might be the perfect day to start my idiotic project for my film studies (or whatever the hell it is that they want to call it) class.

Make a movie which emulates a classic or something like that. The criteria for the project is ludicrously vague and the professor was equally vague in answering questions pertaining to the specifics of the project. All I know is that it has to belong to a certain genre and that it had to exceed the length of ten minutes while also not going over fifteen. The genre was assigned to our small class by the means of our eccentric-as-fuck professor allowing us to draw numbers from his stupid hat. I got action.

I had no idea what I’d make a film about at first, but John eventually managed to toss a lucrative idea into the air—sword fights. Of course, I can’t actually get my hands on real swords on a college campus, so I’m making due with some sabres from the fencing club. I’ve been given a camera by the professor, seeing as I can’t exactly afford one on my own. Really, as far as setting up is concerned, the only thing remaining is to find people to partake in a ten-minute-long assfuck of a fight to appease my oblivious professor.

Luckily for me, I already have one person on board. Rose LaLonde, one of John’s friends, volunteered a few days ago. If I remember correctly, she also suggested that I try getting Dave involved, as he’s apparently some sort of stunt freak. All I needed to do was find the damned bastard.

Where was he, again? Well… “Where is he now” would he likely be is probably the better question to ask because, apparently, the asshat deems living in a reliable home to be a waste of his meagre earnings. He just wanders around town and stays at cheap motels—shitty places the even the most desperate of people wouldn’t dare step into.

I sigh at the thought of having to enter such a den of hostile trash before resigning myself to the fact that this asshat—this Dave Strider—is probably my only chance at actually getting a decent grade on my assignment. With this unpleasant fact forcibly swallowed, I reach into my pocket and pull a piece of paper from it. Scribbled in flowing, cursive handwriting upon this wrinkled page is the address of Dave’s supposed hiding spot. 1201 Derse Street. Room three. Not a flattering address, for sure, but I suppose it’s where I have to go…

 

* * *

 

“The Magic Motel” is, apparently, the building which stands at the address of 1201 Derse Street. Either that, or some dim-witted landscape-fucker forgot to remove the rusty, barely functioning sign which stands before the hideous horseshoe-shaped cluster of dilapidated rooms.

Thinking back, I can recall at least ten shootings, murders, and muggings which have occurred at this piss-poor excuse for temporary respite. One was as recently as three days ago. Hopefully, nothing has happened to the jerk I’m trying to see now…

Whatever. I suppose if something’s happened to my target, I’ll just have to find someone else to harass into helping me… Now, where was he?

Oh, yeah… Room three. I sigh and wander up to the third door on the right, hoping that it’s the correct motel room. I squint at the dented aluminum number which hangs upon the faded green door and, to my relief, find myself staring at the appropriate numeral. I peek into the window and notice the glow of something—probably a television—and deem that enough evidence to force myself to knock on the door.

Quiet cracks accompany my knocks and, upon withdrawing my hand, I notice the source. Chips of green paint cling to my knuckles like glitter from hell. Small holes in the finish of the hideous portal reveal a puke-worthy shade of yellow to be beneath the green and cracks in that reveal an even worse shade of orange. Clicks seem to come from behind the door, and I assume they’re from the occupant opening it.

Soon thereafter, the door swings open. (I’m amazed by the confidence with which he—or whoever is in the room—opens the door. After all, he couldn’t have possibly had had time to check to see who it was. And, even if he had had the time, there was no hole for doing so.) A familiar blond steps forward and I release the breath I’d been holding. When he raises a gun towards me, however, the air catches in my chest once more. I suppose this is why he so easily opened the door…

“Well hey there, stranger,” he murmurs. “Mind telling me why you’re here? I’m sure it’s not for anything nasty—you don’t look the type—but I can’t be too careful around here. Understand?”

His voice, which carries the thickest and perhaps most annoying variety of Texan drawls, is a low growl. It’s a mix between ‘I’m only protecting myself’ and ‘I’ll shoot you in the fact if I feel like it.’ Or, maybe, it’s the type of monotonous voice that just says ‘I don’t give a fuck about damned near anything at this point.’ Whatever it is, I know for sure that it’s unnerving and that the sooner I reason with this apparent nutter, the better.

So, with these thoughts swimming in my head, I force myself to respond. I speak at calmly as possible, in as low a tone as possible, and as quickly as possible. “I’m Karkat Vantas. I go to the university near here. I’m a film student and I need someone to help out in some sort of project.” I pause momentarily before adding in, “I’m friends with John Egbert and Rose LaLonde.”

“Really?” The reply is accompanied by a quick lowering of his weapon and a semblance of some sort of positive emotion. “Okay then… I guess you can come in, then.” He steps aside and jams his weapon back into a rotting chest of drawers. Then, as I enter, he closes and bolts the door shut. He smiles apologetically and shrugs. “Sorry about all of that, um…”

“Karkat,” I sigh. After years of people forgetting I even exist, some douchebag forgetting my name isn’t the end of the world for me. “My name’s Karkat.”

“Okay then, Karkat. Sorry about all of that. I just don’t know who’s wandering around here. I mean, if it makes you feel better, I never would've actually used the thing. It’s too rusty to even work anymore and I’ve never fired a damned gun in my life…”

“That makes me feel like the world has been lifted from my shoulders,” I huff sarcastically prior to abruptly launching into an explanation of the reason I was in this asshole’s foul-smelling, likely mold-infested room. “Anyhow, I just need for you to do a few tricks for some sort of bullshit project I have. Swing around a sword and do some sort of fancy fuckery. I film you, I’ll pay you what I’ve got. That’s all I need, alright?”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Dave responds with a roll of his eyes. “Whatever. I’ll do whatever it is you want me to do for a few dollars. Doesn’t sound too hard… Does it involve some sort of up-front payment?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” I honestly mumble. “But…” I pull out my wallet and shuffle through it, pulling forth the whopping five dollars I have jammed inside. “I guess you can have this.”

“Great.” Dave smirks and takes the money. He stores it in his back pocket and folds his arms across his chest. Suddenly, the amount of douchebag radiating from his stupid frame increases twentyfold. “I can meet you any time and anyplace at the campus that suits you.”

“Okay, then. Thanks, I guess. Um… That’s pretty much it…” Before he can respond, I return to the door. I manage to undo the bolt and flee from the awkward scene like the socially inept shit I am. Then, I return to my dorm and crawl into bed.

It’s nowhere near time to actually bother going to sleep. But, with nothing else better to do, I suppose sleep is a pretty good way to kill some time…


	3. Chapter 3

Rose LaLonde.

She’s fairly tall, with neatly trimmed blonde hair that’s almost always pulled back with a simple black headband. I know her as a friend of John’s, though she’s nice enough to have won me over as a friend, too. To some, she’s an insufferable know-it-all, but she’s actually quite nice once you get to know her. Her psychological analysis of people from time to time does tend to turn away a crowd and get a bit annoying. But, overall, she’s not a raging douchebag. Yet, somehow, it turns out she’s the cousin of just such a person—Dave Strider.

Anyhow, I enlisted her a few days ago to help with the film project. She happily agreed. So, that’s the reason that I find myself seated across from her, staring at incomprehensibly tiny print on crumpled, white filler paper. But, aside from that, I’ve also added another reason to visit her today, and that is so I can discuss my frustrations towards her supposed cousin.

“So,” I awkwardly kick up some conversation as I attempt to read the tiny letters set before me, “How the fuck are you related to that colossal douchebag?”

“Hm,” she takes the bait and responds thoughtfully, “That depends. There are quite a few admirably sizeable douchebags on campus. Which one do you happen to be addressing at the current moment?”

“You know which one,” I grumble, setting down the page in defeat. “The blonde with the stupid shades.”

“Dave?” She responds as if she’s asking a question, though we both know that she knows her answer is correct. “He’s my cousin.” Her voice trails off, as if she’s lost in some sort of massively complicated world of mind-fucking thoughts. However, the reason for this drop off becomes apparent as soon as she slides a cheap magnifying glass towards me. Following this show of mutual understanding, she continues without missing a beat, “Second cousin, really. Why? Any particular reason for this sudden inquiry? You’ve never been interested in the little prick before.”

“Little prick is an acceptable name for him.” I pick up the magnifying glass and get it into a satisfactory position before looking at the papers once more. I note that the four-page-packet I’ve been unsuccessfully attempting to scrutinise has to do with swordplay. It’s a helpful miniaturised booklet, stuffed to the brim with shitloads of interesting information and terminology. Aside from that, it seems Rose was also kind enough to include a bit of information on choreographing film stunts. I continue to read the packet, though I also make sure to reply to Rose’s commentary. “You’re right. I couldn’t have flipped a shit about him before now, but I guess meeting the little shitstain got me interested in how someone like you could even be on the sidelines of his gene pool.”

“We’re actually not all that different, really. No… Actually, we are.” Rose shrugs. She seems to have a sly grin on her face, though it’s gone before I can say for sure if it was even there. “But,  now that I think about it, you and him aren’t that vastly contradistinctive.”

Dammit. Again? Now? Not this psychological prattle. Not now.

“Yes we are,” I snap in immediate retaliation. “The only similarity between us is that we’re both steaming, feculent piles of social waste—festering shit that sits in the middle of a busy park, whose repugnant odour is enough to keep anyone within a five-mile radius away from it.”

“Really?” There’s something in her voice—a dancing quality of sorts—that hints at suppressed laughter. “I guess that’s your opinion. Dave is a strange guy. And, yes, he is undoubtedly the most annoying prick I’ll ever know, but, as much as I loathe admitting it, he’s a decent guy—at the very least.”

“Hmph.” I scoff, turn up my nose at the idea, and fold my arms defiantly across my chest. In the back of my mind, there’s a tiny voice telling me that I look like an indignant, spoiled shit of a child in the middle of a temper tantrum. To be honest, though, I don’t care about that tiny scrap of dignity at the moment. I’m too busy derailing and/or denying her argument. “If that’s the case, then we must have some vastly different opinions of what the word ‘decent’ actually fucking means. There’s no way some shades-wearing brat is anywhere near even the absolute bottom line defining the qualities of an acceptable human being.”

“Suit yourself, Karkat,” Rose responds with that same, infuriating singsong lilt, “I’ll just let you and Dave battle it out together. I’m sure you’ll both come to some sort of truce eventually.”

“Yeah,” I respond sarcastically, “I doubt that.” With a disgruntled sigh, I run my fingers through my messy mop of disgustingly white hair. I stare at the magnified words on the page for another minute before folding them into a small, pocketable square and rising to my feet. “Thanks for the information, Rose,” I murmur flatly.

“You’re welcome.” She flashes me an odd grin—one of those smiles that people give you when they know something you don’t know—and nods. “No problem. Contact me again any time you need help.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.” I gather my things and return them to my bag. Then, I silently wander out of the campus library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Commentary is always appreciated???


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vague details to the rescue!

According to John, I’m being too harsh on Dave. I’m nitpicking everything and ignoring that he has problems, too. I’m harbouring illogical amounts of hatred towards him.

According to me, my hatred is perfectly reasonable. The guy’s a douche. Yeah, he probably has his own problems, but, as far as I know, they don’t amount to much. Oh, what, he’s fucking popular? But, wait! The asshole isn’t popular, really. People just use him as a step on the ladder of popularity. Well, fuck him, because people do that to everyone. No, wait, he’s also got family issues. From what I’ve heard, his gigantic ego backfired on him and ended up estranging him from everyone in his damned family except for Rose. Hell, even if it wasn’t his ego, I’d have dumped the little prick in front of a fucking fire station in a box as soon as I saw him. But, hey, I guess that’s what they call ‘motherly love.’

As far as I’m concerned, all of his problems are the problems that pretty much every-fucking-one else has. If they’re not widespread, then it’s his own damned fault that the problem is even a goddamned issue. I mean, other people have it a whole lot worse. He might be a vagabond, but he’s got enough money stashed away to keep himself comfortable.

Yet, for some reason, John’s insistent upon the fact that I need to find a way to get along with Dave if I’ll be working with him. I suppose he has a point. A strained relationship probably won’t go very far on camera, but, to be honest, it’s a stupid little video mashup. It doesn’t matter.  Now, I’ve tried to communicate this to John many times. I’ve assured him time and time again that I have no interest in hanging around the asshole after the project is finished. Yet, it never works.

Fortunately for me, though, John is neither my mother nor my father. (If either situation were true, then it would be an extremely awkward but completely different scenario, anyhow.) So, logically, I don’t have to give a damn about any of the shit that constantly spews from his opened mouth like sludge from a rusty drainage pipe.

Aside from that, the first day’s filming session is over and nothing too annoying happened during it. In fact, it went relatively well and I don’t exactly plan on going back and redoing anything—especially not with Dave. So, I suppose I don’t actually have to get along with my workers. Moreover, I haven’t had to talk to Dave for the duration of this stupid thing. The most I’ve said to him was to straighten his back and look angrier. That’s it.

Maybe this whole thing won’t be as big of an ordeal as I thought it would be…

 

* * *

 

No, never mind. I take that back.

A snowstorm ended up hitting the area a few hours after filming ended. Seeing as Dave lives a good half an hour away, going home isn’t exactly an option for him. Aside from that, the stupid motel he stays at is too damned shitty to actually have heating. And, probably because the world hates me, he’s staying here.

I had hoped that Rose would be able to take him back with her, but she and Kanaya are apparently doing their own stupid, romantic shit tonight.  So, that means we—and by we, I mean John and I—get the misfortune of catering to the little snotfucker tonight.

And, so it is that I happen to be sleeping on the floor, with the damned asshole in my bed. I manage to drift off to sleep for all of two hours—coaxing myself into my lovely disconnect by  reminding myself that the faster I go sleep, the less time I’ll have to spend around the damned shitstain. Then, I’m woken by the sound of the unwanted guest’s alarm going off.

The alarm, itself, is but a shrill, terribly digitised version of some disgusting monstrosity known as dubstep. Each note seems to be beyond the electronic capabilities of the inconsiderate prick’s shitty old phone. At least, that is if the electronic screeches—like robotic cats screaming in agony—are any sign of electronic inadequacy.

I consider saying something to the little fuckknocker. Something like, “Hey, bastard, there are people in the room besides you,” but I refrain from actually doing so. I figure that waking John with my verbal expressions of annoyance is on the same level as Sir Everything-is-me’s inconsiderate stupidity. So, I merely pretend that I am perfectly fine and sleeping like a drugged baby.

Of course, this acting—which, from me, is probably as believable as a stoned hillbilly’s attempt to emulate Don Juan—doesn’t stop me from observing how the little douchenozzle goes about his daily life. As I completely expect, he doesn’t seem to mind paying any heed to common courtesy, seeing as one of the first things he does after waking up is tripping over me. He doesn’t take much pride in himself, either, seeing as he doesn’t even bother to shave the ugly stubble which, despite its pale colouration, is still clearly visible in the early morning light.

Aside from these two observations, there’s only one other thing that strikes me as odd about him: he seems confused. He wanders about for several minutes, seemingly unaware of what he’s doing or where he is. I assume this is likely due to his ignorance, though, and comfort myself by closing my eyes and attempting to go back to sleep.

Knowing fully that he’ll be gone by morning, I quickly drift off and, just before I’m about to slip into the world of dreams and solitude, I hear the door close.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback welcome. If you find any typos (which I'm sure you will) please point them out.  
> I hope you enjoy this fic!


End file.
